'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

“In an old building down on the waterfront. Curled up beneath a stairwell.” Wakefield rubbed a hand wearily over his face. “It’s all true, Missus Donnelly. Thomas, the child, blackmail—all of it true, and all of it happening right beneath my nose. This is all my fault. I’m a damned fool.”

  Grace thought about his room at the opposite end of the hall, his study below Abigail’s room, his infrequent visits to his sister.

  “Aye.” She pulled a blanket up over Abigail’s bruised bare feet, over her skinned knees and damaged wrists, the battered elbows, over the dirty nightgown that stuck to all the tiny places she’d cut into herself, trying in desperation to release her pain. “Aye,” she repeated. “For all your study of pain, Doctor, you’ve been blind to your sister’s.”

  Wakefield looked at her, stung, but then he nodded. “You’re right. I am the worst kind of physician, willing to treat the symptoms while ignoring their cause.”

  Grace laid the back of her warm hand against Abigail’s cool cheek. “What will you do now?”

  “Bring the child to her mother,” he decided.

  Grace sat down on the edge of the bed and faced him. “Her mother is the one tucks her up each night and greets her each morning, the one feeds and dresses her, plays with her, rocks her to sleep.” She stopped, remembering the first time she’d seen Jack, his arms firmly around Julia’s neck, the realization that he was very much his own person in the world and not a possession to be returned. “To suddenly take her away from the only family she knows would be cruel. ’Twould be heartless, and you are not a heartless man.”

  Wakefield slumped. “What, then? Carry on as if nothing has happened?”

  “As far as that little girl’s concerned, nothing has happened. Her world is as ’tis always been.” Grace leaned forward. “You can’t fix this in a single day, Doctor. ’Twas years in the making, may be years in the undoing, but you must make sure the child’s peace is not shattered.”

  “I don’t know anything about these people. Maybe it’s not the best place for her.”

  “Go out and meet them, then,” Grace suggested. “Abigail needs time to heal before she sees her child, and besides, sir, you might not be able to …” She stopped and bit her lip.

  “Say it, Missus Donnelly. You’ve been right so far. Whatever it is, I can take it. I might not be able to … what?”

  “Well, sir—’twould be wrong of you to bring the child into this house feeling as you do toward black folk. You might try to hide it, but she’d feel it every day, a hundred different ways, and ’twould hurt her. You’ve no idea what that’s like, but I do. And I’ve faced nothing compared to her lot.”

  Wakefield thought about it. “She may be light-skinned,” he posed. “Light enough to pass.”

  Grace shook her head. “Do you hear yourself? Because if you’re talking about purity, then we’re none of us light enough to pass, though God accepts us anyway. If we were all blind in the world, would it matter to you then?”

  Abigail moaned in her sleep and tried to turn on her side; Grace helped her, tenderly resettling the blanket around her shoulders.

  “But we’re not blind,” Wakefield whispered when she was done. “The eyes of society are open wide, and judgment is everywhere.”

  “Start with yourself, Doctor. You’re angry with an entire race over what you thought was the betrayal of one man. But Thomas Eden never betrayed your friendship. You’re the one refused to see the truth; you’re the one hardened your heart against a man you knew could never do such a terrible thing.”

  “It was over and done with by the time I got there. I just accepted what they said. And I hated him for what had happened to Abigail, though I never understood it, because …” Wakefield’s voice broke now. “Because I’d known him all my life. Loved him like a brother. Why on earth didn’t he tell me?” the doctor implored. “Why didn’t he trust me?”

  “Why didn’t she?”

  Wakefield shrugged in defeat.

  “Because you’re white. Because you’re a man. Because you held all the power in their world, and because they couldn’t trust how you’d use it.”

  “They could’ve trusted me. And as for being a white man … I can’t change the fact of my birth.”

  “Nor can any of us,” Grace agreed, “especially not that little girl. So why should she pay for the fact of it? Why should any of us pay for how we’re born, when how we live our lives is what makes us who we are? Blood is blood, Doctor—you know better than most that you can’t tell the color of a man’s skin by looking at his blood.”

  “The little girl’s a Wakefield, in other words.”

  “And an Eden,” Grace added. “Her mother gave her that beautiful name to wear to remind her that, in God’s eyes, she is perfect just as she is. And if you cannot see that, sir, then you don’t deserve to be a part of her life.”

  Wakefield wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I want to deserve it,” he resolved quietly.

  “Then have faith, Doctor. If not in yourself, then in the one who can work great change in any man who asks.” Grace paused. “We emigrants know a bit about faith. We set out on little ships for a land we’ve never seen, all for the promise of freedom and a chance to change the course of our lives. But where is America’s promise for those kept as slaves, sir? Can you tell me that?”

  Wakefield shook his head. “In the future, perhaps.”

  “Eden Wakefield is the future.” Grace put her hand on the doctor’s arm. “And if you lift her up before you as the light she truly is, then others will see more clearly what has to be done, and we can all move out of the darkness together.”

  “You’re asking more than you know,” Wakefield told her, but Grace could hear in his voice his acceptance of what she’d said.

  “‘To whom much is given,’” she quoted, then smiled encouragingly. “Your sister is home, sir, and in time she’ll recover; her child is alive and safe, and soon you’ll know her. Time is your friend, Doctor, and now”—Grace put out her hand—“it’s time to eat something and then to bed if you’re to be of any use tomorrow.”

  Wakefield took her hand and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. “I don’t know what to say to you, Missus Donnelly. Thanks are not enough. Not now. Not after all this.”

  “Thanks for what?” Grace asked. “For picking a fight with your housekeeper? ’Twas my pleasure, sir. Really and truly.”

  Wakefield laughed despite himself, then carefully opened the door to let himself out. “I’ll let you hire the next one, believe you me.”

  “I think we can manage very well with just Enid for now, sir. I hope you’ll not hold her mother against her.”

  “No, Missus Donnelly, I will not. After all, no one can change the fact of their birth, only the course of their lives.” Wakefield’s eyes fell upon his sleeping sister. “Can you stay with her for a few hours? I just need a short rest.”

  “I’ll stay all night, if you like.”

  “Thank you, but I want to be here when she wakes up. I want her to know that she is no longer alone.”

  “That’s good of you, Doctor.”

  “It’s not nearly good enough,” Wakefield allowed wearily. “But it’s all I can do for now.”

  Thirty

  Morgan and Quinn sat in the back of Ogue’s with paper, pens, and maps laid out on the big square table. Outside the windows, rain poured down and the streets ran with mud and gunk, splashed up by horse-drawn carriages and carts.

  “Wagoners cover twenty miles a day, if they’re lucky.” Morgan tapped his pen against the map. “But I’m thinking we might be able to start with one party, then ride ahead to the next and then the next, as we learn how many days ahead each party is. We could cover a lot more ground that way, make better time. Far better time than if we sailed down round the Horn. What do you think, eh, Quinn?”

  Quinn had been staring out the window at the watercolored street, but now he turned and met the eyes of his friend.

  “I think I can’t do it. I can�
�t go away off somewhere and start all over again. ’Tis best for me to stay where at least I know my way round.”

  “Right.” Morgan put down his pen. “Better to stay in the place that nearly sent you to an early grave. Better to hang around here because Lord knows work’s plentiful, the pay’s generous, and every Irishman revered for his upstanding character.” He leaned across the table, his eyes blazing. “C’mon, Quinn, what do you really think?”

  Quinn tried to hold his own, but Morgan’s intensity crumbled his resolve and finally, he looked down at the map.

  “For the cost of outfitting two riders to go cross-country, you could buy yourself a ticket on a steamer and be there inside of two months,” he said quietly. “Two months at most, Morgan, and you could be with your one. I think you’re an eejit to be dragging me along.”

  “Quit playing the martyr, you daft pug,” Morgan replied. “I’m not dragging you along. Do you think I have the faintest idea what’s out there, what we’re up against?” He shook his head. “I need you, Quinn. I’m not going without you, and that’s final. So are you going to help me make a plan here, or do we need to step outside to settle this?”

  The corner of Quinn’s mouth began to twitch, and then he laughed. “Always the big talker.”

  “Ah, no, that was Sean.” Morgan corrected him, and both men fell silent for a moment. “Do you think we’ll ever see him again, then?”

  “Why not?” Quinn shrugged his shoulders. “You’re here, aren’t you, so anything’s possible.”

  Morgan’s eyes cleared and he nodded. “Right. That’s right, Quinn. Don’t forget you said that. Anything’s possible.” He pushed the map closer to his friend. “Now there’s two routes we could take—”

  “You might want to put that thing away,” Ogue interrupted, his big shadow falling over their table. “There’s a man here, wants to see the both of you about going west. What do you say?”

  Morgan looked up, puzzled. “He wants to ride out with us?”

  “I don’t know about that. Got his own ideas, this one.” Ogue glanced at the well-dressed gentleman standing at the bar. “Bit of a dandy, but I can vouch for him. Will you hear him out?”

  Morgan began to fold up the map. “Send him over.”

  “Smart boy.” Ogue popped him on the shoulder, then motioned to the gentleman, who came at once. “Morgan McDonagh, Quinn Sheehan—this is Jay Livingston, friend to both Sean and Grace.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Mister McDonagh.” Livingston proffered his hand. “Very pleased, indeed. Quite astounding, actually. Your being alive, I mean.”

  Morgan shook the hand. “Sit down, Mister Livingston. You staying, Dugan?” he asked the barkeep.

  “Customers. They never stop coming in. I’ll check on you later, though, bring you another round.” Ogue left an awkward silence in his wake, but it lasted only until Livingston turned his attention to Quinn.

  “Pleased to meet you, as well, Mister Sheehan. Are you also a friend of the O’Malleys?”

  “Aye,” Quinn answered stiffly. “Grew up near to each other back home in Ireland.”

  “What can we do for you, Mister Livingston?” Morgan decided to get right to the point. “Ogue says you’re interested in coming west with us?”

  “No, actually, I have no desire to go west. Too soft for frontier travel, I’m afraid.” Livingston smiled ruefully. “And I have a wife and young children.”

  Morgan regarded him, puzzled. “How can we help you, then?”

  “I haven’t made myself clear,” Livingston apologized. “My interest is in helping you, Mister McDonagh. And you, Mister Sheehan,” he added politely. “You see, I enjoyed a lively friendship with Sean O’Malley, a man I greatly admired. Through him, I met Gracelin, and my admiration for the family grew. In all these years, I’ve never met two more remarkable people—Sean, with his brilliant mind and quick wit, and Grace with her …” He paused, thinking, then shook his head. “Actually, I never know quite how to describe her—kind, fierce, compassionate, tenacious, stubborn …” He gave up and shrugged.

  “Aye.” Morgan grinned. “She’s named for the great pirate queen of Connaught. Did you know that?”

  “A pirate queen.” Livingston considered this. “I believe that sums her up perfectly.”

  Morgan laughed. “Did you know her well, then?”

  “To be honest? Not as well as I would’ve liked. But by the time I realized that, she was, of course, considering Captain Reinders’ proposal of marriage, although I’ll admit I was not gentleman enough to let it stand in the way of putting forth my own proposal. Which she turned down most charmingly, I might add. I hardly knew my heart had been broken until well after.”

  “But she didn’t marry him. The captain, I mean.” Quinn looked to Livingston for confirmation. “She’s not married yet, we’re told.”

  “Yet being the operative word,” Livingston pointed out. “Which brings me back to my offer—gentlemen, what would you say to a loan in the amount of two steamer tickets to San Francisco, and a stake to set you up in business?” He held up his hand to stop their protests. “You can repay it at will, over time, with interest if your venture is profitable. Or don’t pay it back at all. I just want you to have it.”

  Morgan glanced at Quinn, whose jaw had dropped, leaving him to gape in astonishment.

  “’Tis a sum of money, that,” Morgan stated. “Why would you offer such a thing to two men you don’t know?”

  “Believe it or not, Mister McDonagh, though I offer it as a loan, I consider it repayment of a debt.” Livingston pulled off his gloves and held up his left hand, upon which gleamed a solid gold band.

  Quinn and Morgan looked at one another and then back at Livingston, who tapped his wedding ring against the edge of the table.

  “Do you hear that, gentlemen?” he asked. “That’s the sound of happiness, the kind of happiness I could so easily have missed had I not the privilege of Grace’s friendship.” Livingston turned his attention to Morgan now. “Your wife gave me a glimpse of the true bond that could exist between a man and a woman and, after she left for Boston, I was simply unable to continue finding satisfaction in casual pursuits.”

  “So you married,” Morgan said.

  Livingston nodded with pleasure. “I did. She was not the kind of woman I would have ever considered before—not coy and seductive, but quiet and keenly intelligent, passionate in her own way. The kind of woman who would have terrified me in the past.” He grinned. “But, owing to the new standard set for me, I fell madly in love with her and managed to persuade her to marry me. And, gentlemen—I am a far better man with her than I could ever have been without.”

  “So that’s the reason you’re loaning us the money?” Morgan eyed him suspiciously. “Because you’re happily married?”

  “Yes,” Livingston said simply. “And because the woman who enlightened me deserves to be happily married, as well. Loving my own wife as I do, I know now how much Grace suffered when she thought you were dead. Captain Reinders, though I hate to admit it, would be good to her, but it’s you she longs for; I know it. When I heard that you were alive, I realized that here was a chance to do for her what she’d done for me.” He paused. “So what do you say, McDonagh? Will you take the money?”

  At that moment, Ogue arrived with a tray of glasses, which he dropped heavily in the middle of the table; without a word, he passed each man a glass, then took one himself, picking the tray back up and lodging it firmly under his arm.

  “What are we drinking to, then, fellas?”

  The three men sitting at the table looked round at one another, Livingston’s eyebrows raised hopefully.

  “Well, Dugan.” Morgan put his hand around the glass and lifted it. “We’re going west. Here’s to a faster trip than we’d planned.”

  “Here’s to happiness!” Livingston chimed in enthusiastically, lifting his own glass. “And to the love of a good woman, the warmth of hearth and home, the sheer delight of children, and to—�
��

  “I swear to God you must be Irish,” Ogue muttered, cutting him off; he then tipped his glass toward the others. “Here’s to a safe journey, boys.”

  Quinn hesitated only a moment, and then he joined the others. “To a new life,” he pronounced quietly. “God willing.”

  Ogue put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “He is, son. He is.”

  Thirty-one

  With Doctor Wakefield’s permission, Grace, Enid, and George began the first weeks of Abigail’s recovery by stripping the bedding from her old room and carrying the mattress out to be burned. They’d added to the carefully tended fire her old ragged and sullied nightgowns, as well as the blood-mottled rugs and stained runners. Grace had taken down the heavy curtains and given them, as well the rest of Abigail’s garments, to the laundress to clean. After George had moved the furniture, Grace and Enid had scoured the room from top to bottom with hot, soapy water; Grace felt strongly that Abigail was through with this room but, painted a cheerful color, with the new draperies and white furniture the doctor had ordered from the east, it could be a very nice room for a little girl, should she one day come to visit.

  Wakefield remained at home most of the time, determined to be available every time Abigail awoke, and as their visits grew longer, Wakefield let her know that he was aware of the hold Hopkins had had upon her, that he knew the secret of the child. Abigail was frightened at first, then anxious and ashamed, but Wakefield made sure she understood that he harbored no harsh judgments against her, that he loved her and held himself responsible for the nightmare of these past years. He told her everything he’d found out about Eden Wakefield—where she was living and with whom—and he shared his plans for riding out with George to see the little girl and ensure that all was well with her. Whether or not the child should come to live with them was the question that hung in the balance; both of them were in agreement that each step had to be taken with careful consideration—the priority was the child. As the days passed, Wakefield took his every meal with his sister as a way of encouraging her to eat and regain her strength and, as this began to happen, she also began to trust him enough to reveal the truth about Thomas Eden.